The Year of Celebration

Oh, London. One day you amaze me with the beauty of your residents (see last post ). The next day you remind me of why I can fear such residents. In great contrast to my Friday morning, my Sunday morning started off with a horrible interaction with a Londoner (with a German accent, but let's call him a Londoner for the sake of convenient comparison). I live on Brixton Hill down the street from The Fridge Bar. Now when I was 16 or 17 I used to go to the Fridge and Dogstarr and other Brixton haunts on weekend escapes from boarding school. Although Brixton was dodgier 12 years ago (yes, I just gave away my age) I remember the bars as amazing, but either my drunken memory fails me or they really were amazing and times have since changed. I think the Fridge has actually been shut down a few times since then, but it's like a cat with nine lives. Anyway, this place is open from 4am to 11am on weekend nights, which is basically a direct invitation for anyone high on blow and molly to ...

It's amazing how a day can seem so hopeless and then turn out beautifully. My plan was to audition at The Albany Theatre in Deptford this morning then to go to work in Wimbledon. I woke up to find that I hadn't been paid. Therefore, no money in my account and only £2 on the ole oyster travelcard. The life of a starving actress is a precarious one and I find myself walking that tightrope often. Cue me frantically calling a family member for help. He thought perhaps I could go to the station and use his card over the phone. The Underground staff at Brixton were no help, but they said that the train station could do it. I went to the train station. They don't do oyster top-ups. One word: SCREWED. The man in the booth at Brixton train station started trying to brainstorm with me, asking me if I knew anyone nearby. Of course all my friends in the area are at work. I was resigned to the fact that I was going to have to cancel the audition and work for the day, therefore missin...